


Be you blithe and bonny

by id_ten_it



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gilbert & Sullivan References, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13979256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/id_ten_it/pseuds/id_ten_it
Summary: There's one song Bertie can't stand, and Aunt Dahlia isn't going to make him listen to it. Jeeves rallies round to provide support to the young master, while Aunt Dahlia shouts at a poor musician.“"My nephew was there man!” If ever an Aunt had stormed unfettered at a poor musician, Dahlia Travers did now. For a moment the world spun before my eyes, and I sank gracelessly against the stone wall."





	Be you blithe and bonny

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Jeeves and the Red Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/363894) by Minor God. 



> Thank you Minor God for your blessing to write/ post this story.

I had been strolling along the formal gardens of my Aunt Dahlia’s extensive country grounds, enjoying a cigarette and the peace of a house free from pestilential beazels. They were to come later today, but the peace was so far still intact. As always the young Bertram had been summoned not just on his own merits, but on the merits of his man, Jeeves. Said paragon of valets was currently consuming large amounts of the sea-grown to stimulate his brain into answering Aunt Dahlia’s requirements for a scheme or wheeze. I was just pondering the time, and wondering if I'd be able to get a snifter of something soonish, when I heard raised voices. Despite being nearly a hundred yards from the drawing-room windows, I could clearly hear the horror in my noble Aunt’s voice. Given her history of long-distance, outdoor, communication, I was only a touch troubled. Ankling closer, I made out the general tone not only of her voice but of her words.

“Why wasn’t this discovered earlier?” She was calling, as one Aunt calls to another Aunt across the veldt.  
“I do apologise Madam” The poor young squirt sounded quite distressed. I couldn’t blame him.  
“This will never do! Do you have any idea what would happen if you played that piece here? The audience would rise up! You’d be completely overwhelmed!”  
“I am sorry Madam.”  
“Oh! You’re sorry are you? Not half as sorry as you would be, you young blighter, if you played your dastardly tune! Talk about dry eyes! When my _nephew_ is here, too!”

It was odd to hear her say nephew in that tone of voice. We kidded back and forth now and then, on the telephone, don’t you know, about ‘aged relative’ and ‘nincompoop nephew’ but that was about it in the way of familial ties. About it until something really got her going, by the sounds of it. I wondered what this piece was that got her so riled up.

“Pardon me, Madam” It was clear to the meanest intelligence (mine) that the poor chap had no idea who I was. By this stage I was nearly in front of the doors, don’t you know. Walking and listening. If I’d been a bit closer it would have been a perfect entry line but sadly I was still a good twenty paces away and at a deuced awkward angle from the doors. I couldn’t quite see the chappy to give him the cheerful waggle of the fingers.

“My nephew was _there_ man!” If ever an Aunt had stormed unfettered at a poor musician, Dahlia Travers did now. For a moment the world spun before my eyes, and I sank gracelessly against the stone wall. My ears were buzzing, though whether from shock or the continued shouting, I could not say. Rather like being underwater, and that wasn’t something I was comfortable with right then.

“Sir?”   
I gasped, mouth working and hands trembling, as Jeeves – my paragon, my saviour – hastened to provide the y. master with the assistance so clearly required. “Are you feeling ill, Sir?” One strong arm around the trembling shoulders, the other hand gently feeling the forehead for a temperature. All rather cosier than the dreadful feeling but moments before.  
“Sorry Jeeves.” I murmured, through chattering teeth rather like the castanets wielded with such skill by the girls at Barmy’s birthday, “Sorry. I’ll be better directly.”

  
Did the Jeevesian eyebrow twitch at that or not? It was hard to say. I rather hoped it did as there was no need for the both of us to be sad. “Allow me, Sir.” Moments later, I was being fed a mouthful of brandy, my tie was loosened, and my collar undone. Leaning back against the cool stone, Jeeves a warm weight at my left side, my right somewhat warmed by the sun, things began to seem less terrible.

  
“No doubt you think me rather a weakling, Jeeves.” I began, after a while of enjoying the l. t. life.  
“Not at all, Sir.”  
“Well, you’d be forgiven for so doing.”  
“That is very kind of you Sir.” Jeeves’ eyes met mine briefly, then returned to considering the rolling parkland and general _esprit de country_ or whatever you call it. The grass.  
“The fact is, Jeeves, Aunt Dahlia was making rather a row. I suppose you heard it.” At his silent agreement, I continued, “Did you hear what it was about? In detail I mean.”  
“I did not, Sir. Whilst Mrs Travers has a strong, carrying, voice, if I may say so, Sir, I could not gather the finer details from her words.”

  
Ah Jeeves. Always with the proprieties. “You’re always following the proprieties, Jeeves. Even with the corpus being encroached upon by the young masters.” Jeeves regarded me calmly for a short moment, obviously feeling this did not dignify a response. “Yes, well, the thing is, Jeeves, it’s all rather my fault.”  
“I hardly think that possible, Sir. We arrived only a short time ago.”  
“It’s about this concert tonight. The after-dinner entertainment. Aunt Dahlia has some local lad-made-good doing a spot of entertaining with a couple of the local talents. Something about encouraging the general populace to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. She was chewing over the programme with said lad and came upon a piece not up to scratch. Popular, usually a real hit, yet not one that Bertram is fond of. Brings me out like this, you see.” I rubbed a hand over the old mug, checking for leaks. Not finding any, I returned my gaze out to the grass. “You’re probably quite fond of the tune, Jeeves, it’s rather a popular ditty. But you see, when I was a lad, after…well…I was taken along to a concert. In New York. Fascinating city. But this piece was front and centre. People were humming it in the streets, whistling it on their way down to the trains, all that sort of thing. Catchy little number. It rather became the backdrop to some unpleasant memories, don’t you know. So Bertram tries to ignore the dashed thing.”  
Jeeves returned his gaze onto the y. m. “Perhaps if you gave me the name of the piece, Sir, I could endeavour to assist you.”

  
I hesitated. I hadn’t told anyone else, not since Aunt Dahlia had imposed a sort of all-comers rule, like a particularly comfortable blanket, upon all music meeting my ears.  
“Only if you feel it would be beneficial, Sir.” His eyes were gentle, like his hands. The g. eyes regarded me for another moment before respectfully returning to the grass.  
“It’s not a slur on the writer, you understand, Jeeves. I’m rather partial to some of his other works.”  
“I understand, Sir. It is merely the association you find painful, not the entire body of work from the composer.”  
“Yes. Just as well. Sullivan has quite a b. of w., as you put it.” For a breath or two the words remained safely locked inside the old heart, where I’d left them for safekeeping. “It’s _Lost Chord_ , Jeeves. I can’t stand the bally thing.”  
Jeeves, as the true feudal spirit would suggest, was silent in a most respectful manner for several breaths. Several of his, my breath was being held tighter than an owls. “Thank you for telling me, Sir.” He said at last, with slightly more feeling than if I had told him about some dust he’d missed on the sideboard (not that Jeeves ever misses dust on the sideboard – or anywhere else – but you get my meaning). “Perhaps we should retire to a more comfortable part of the house?” He suggested, standing us both and leading me to my room.

Once ensconced he had the corpus in a chair, blanket around the knees, just as though I weren’t a perfectly well grown man. It was all rather nice, really. He fussed around the place, chatting lightly of this and that, and I happily followed his lead. “Is there any other music you dislike, Sir?” He asked, after reciting something about the pastoral views and commenting also on the car drawing up on the drive and disgorging a giggling gaggle of girls.  
“Not really. I even like the rest of Sullivan”  
“Yes Sir” Jeeves’ voice was entirely proper but I remembered just a moment too late that I’d already told him that.  
“Sorry Jeeves. Of course you remember.” As the giggling grew closer I sighed, “I should dress soon.”  
“In a moment, Sir. I shall retrieve a small refreshment first, if you would be so good as to wait there.”  
“You won’t hear me complaining, old thing.” I tried to say, but must have tripped over a yawn in trying to, because the next thing I knew was Jeeves tempting me with a brandy and soda – light on the s.

Thus revived and encased in the raiment, a more chipper Bertram made his way back downstairs. Aunt Dahlia had been told (“Mrs Travers was very pressing, Sir. I am sorry, Sir”) but aside from a pet of the arm and a warm smile, nothing was said. She did ensure B. got his share of the foodstuffs though. Fed, and having for once been protected from the onslaught of women, I found my body relaxed on one of the more comfortable chairs inhabiting Aunt Dahlia’s abode. The evening entertainment was surprisingly good, with upbeat music and the occasional more considered number. As the last piece started, I glanced around the room and caught Jeeves’ eye. He was watching me with an assessing sort of gaze. I smiled reassuringly at him, touched at his choice of music. Sullivan, but with Shakespeare. Perfect. Perfect for the two of us.

**Author's Note:**

> "The Lost Chord" (by Arthur Sullivan) was performed by Enrico Caruso at a benefit concert held in New York for those impacted by the sinking of RMS Titanic. 
> 
> "Sigh no more ladies" (by Arthur Sullivan) was not performed at that concert, although it was written around ten years earlier than 'The Lost Chord'. It is the source of the title of this work, and one of five 'Shakespeare Songs' written by Sullivan.
> 
> Both pieces are available online or, no doubt, at your favourite music store.


End file.
